


This is the night, what it does to you

by CarolineShea



Category: Glee
Genre: Feelings like woah, Fluffy sexytimes, Frottage, M/M, Outdoor Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-03
Updated: 2017-06-03
Packaged: 2018-11-08 12:19:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11081451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CarolineShea/pseuds/CarolineShea
Summary: Nighttime outdoor frottage. Read the fic, or listen to thePodficrecorded by the very talented Asuninside. Please enjoy!





	This is the night, what it does to you

 

_ This is the night, what it does to you _

   
“Blaine…”  
   
“Mm…?”  
   
“Blai – _Blaine_ …”  
  
“Yeah…?”  
  
“It’s almost your curfew…”  
  
“Uh-huh…”  
  
“This has to – _oh_ \- be the last…”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“..kiss…”  
  
“Right, yeah, of course, you’re right,” says Blaine breathlessly before gripping Kurt’s shoulders more tightly than before and swooping back down to kiss him again.  
  
Kurt is flushed and shivering beneath him, wedged between the driver’s seat door… and _Blaine_. Blaine is half-kneeling and half-sprawled on top of Kurt, an awkward exercise in self-control that doesn’t allow either of them to fully relax.  
  
There’s a reason for this.  
  
They’re in agreement that they want their first time to be _special._ The definition of _special_ had initially involved romantic pre-requisites: an attractive, dimly-lit room, for example, with flowers and candles and mood music and soft, inviting cushions. But they’ve noticed a  certain mathematical trend - a formula in which the rising tide of their hormones appears to be _inversely_ proportional to their standards - to the point that the definition of special has devolved to basically mean “anywhere in the world we can be uninterrupted and naked.” And unfortunately Kurt’s car, parked on Blaine’s street, fails to meet even this admittedly liberal definition.  
  
They’ve tossed around the idea of renting a motel room; but the only motels that wouldn’t bother carding them have the kind of rooms where they’d feel uneasy taking their _shoes_ off, never mind stripping down and rolling around in the bed linens. Burt has always been strict about Kurt’s bedroom door staying open. Blaine’s parents haven’t specifically said anything to that effect, but he keeps his door open, anyway; he’s sure his parents prefer that, and if possible he’d like to spare all of them the embarrassment of ‘the talk.’ They’ve made it this far without having it, and it’s starting to seem likely that they never will.  
  
Unfortunately, he and Kurt have yet to find a place that could potentially constitute _special_.  
  
Which means that they’re here – in Kurt’s car – essentially playing with fire.

Blaine is hovering over Kurt. One half of him is focused on keeping his hips far above Kurt’s and respecting the boundaries they’ve set in place. The other half of him is trying to get as close to Kurt as humanly possible, aches in every place Kurt _isn’t_ touching him, and feels like every second spent _not-kissing-Kurt_ is a wasted opportunity.  
  
It’s a precarious position, both literally and figuratively. His left knee is partially wedged into the cup-holder of the front-seat console, his right arm is braced against the dashboard, and basically _any_ disturbance will send him sprawling directly on top of Kurt.  
  
It’s almost torturous. Kurt’s voice is getting progressively breathier, and his eyes are getting progressively cloudier, and it sucks, _it_ _sucks_ that he can’t ask Kurt to come inside. And it sucks _even worse_ that he isn’t the type of son who would break curfew _or_ the type of boyfriend who would press for their first time to be a rushed handjob inside a car.  
  
That being said, he is _definitely_ the type of guy who will keep kissing Kurt until the last possible second, speaking of which –  
  
“Blaine, I’m _serious_ ,” gasps Kurt as Blaine kisses his way down Kurt’s neck, just to the right of his Adam’s apple. “It – it’s 10:54. Last one.”  
  
Kurt tugs gently at the back of Blaine’s collar and Blaine takes the hint, letting Kurt draw him into a slow, sweet, tender kiss.  
  
“Okay,” says Kurt shakily, when they pull apart. He glances out the passenger window to Blaine’s house, a blue split-level tucked away in a quiet neighborhood cul-de-sac.  “I guess. I guess you should… go.”  
  
“I don’t want to,” says Blaine, and it’s almost _stupid_ for him to have said that. It’s the most obvious and the least changeable fact in their shared universe.  
  
“I know,” sighs Kurt, and he glances up at Blaine through lowered eyelashes with the slightest hint of a pout on his glossy-pink lips and –  
  
“ _One_ more kiss.”  
  
“Last one. I mean it this time.”  
  
“ _Definitely_ the last one.”  
  
It isn’t the last one. There are at least four or five more; a series of swift, dizzying kisses that leave them both nearly breathless, completely turned-on, and just a _little_ bit more in love with each other than when they’d started.  
  
But now it’s 10:57, and it really _is_ time for Blaine to leave.  
  
“Do you… want me to walk you to your front door?” asks Kurt uncertainly. “I feel like I should know the answer to that, but, uh, is that… something we do?”  
  
Blaine is thrown by the question. Is this really the first time they’ve been in this position? The first time they’ve been out on a traditional “pick you up at seven and have you home by curfew” type of date?  He guesses it is. Thus far, they’ve either driven separately and met up somewhere or one of them has driven over and spent time at the other’s house. But tonight had been their four-month anniversary and Kurt had offered to drive to the restaurant, so…  
  
“There’s no need,” Blaine answers honestly. “You should stay in the air conditioning. Just watch me and make sure I don’t die from heat exhaustion on the way to my porch.”  
  
“I believe male protocol dictates that I make a tasteless comment about giving you CPR, but my brain doesn’t appear to be working at the moment. I can’t imagine why.”  
  
Blaine laughs. “Well, when you think of one, I’ll be sure to act suitably offended.” He leans across the seat and pecks Kurt on the lips for what is _really_ , _seriously_ the last time. “Love you,” he murmurs against Kurt’s mouth.  
  
“Love you, too.” There’s a dreamy, wondering tone to Kurt’s voice as he locks eyes with him and says, “God, I’m not getting over that, Blaine. How is it possible that I’m _still_ not getting over that?”  
  
“I don’t know,” says Blaine honestly, “but I’m right there with you.”  
  
One more time. They kiss _one_ more time. __  
  
“Night.”  
  
“G’night.”  
  
“Are you _sure_ you don’t want me to walk you to your door?”  
  
“Yeah, I’m sure. Love you. Bye."  
  
“I love you, too. So, _so_ much.”  
  
Blaine finally summons up the willpower to extricate himself from Kurt’s embrace. He slides out of the passenger door, and shuts it behind him. The blast of warm humidity hits him as soon as he steps outside. He slaps away two mosquitos attempting to feast on his neck and he trudges slowly across his side-yard, listening to the insistent susurration of the cicadas, the chirping of the crickets, and the steady, reassuring drone of Kurt’s engine as his car idles on Blaine’s street –  
  
Until it stops.  
  
Blaine whirls around in confusion at the sound of the engine cutting off. It’s followed by the sound of a car door opening, the metallic _click_ of a seat-belt unbuckling, the quiet jangling of car keys, and the unmistakable sound of footsteps on pavement.  
  
“Kurt?” he calls out uncertainly.  
  
His boyfriend steps around to the passenger side of the car. “Blaine, I – god, this is stupid,” Kurt says, almost to himself.  
  
“Stupid?” echoes Blaine in confusion. “Kurt, is something wrong?”  
  
“Why can’t I leave you?” asks Kurt wonderingly. “Seriously. I’m seeing you again in two days. It shouldn’t be _this hard_ to leave you tonight, should it? Blaine?”

Blaine stares at Kurt across the lawn, their eyes just barely visible to each other by the dim illumination of a nearby street-lamp.  
  
“I’m the wrong person to ask,” admits Blaine, swallowing hard. “It feels like that for me every time.”  
  
Kurt gives him _a look_. It manages to be both beautifully loving and wickedly fierce at the same time, and a tendril of heat twists low in Blaine’s abdomen at the sight of it. Kurt crosses the lawn in a few, quick steps and before Blaine can even register what’s happening, Kurt has grabbed Blaine’s hand in his and begun dragging him along behind him, leading him… _somewhere_. It forcibly reminds Blaine of a clear afternoon in November, when he’d met a boy on the main staircase, taken his hand, and guided him to the senior commons via the _longest_ possible short-cut he could devise.

Blaine follows Kurt blindly through a tangle of weeds, past a bed of white trillium flowers, past a cluster of blossoming rhododendron bushes, and over to a secluded, darkened corner of his yard.  
  
He ducks underneath the branches of a chestnut tree and tugs on Blaine’s hand, indicating that he should follow. Once they’re sheltered, Kurt turns to face Blaine, their hands still clasped together. “I changed my mind,” he says breathlessly. “I thought I’d walk you to your door after all.”  
  
Blaine frowns up at Kurt. “Um – this is a tree,” he points out, just in case Kurt somehow missed that fact.  
  
“That’s nice,” says Kurt absently, before pulling Blaine flush against him and _kissing the living breath out of him._  
  
Kurt doesn’t even try to play nice; the kiss starts out hot, open-mouthed, and _dirty_ as hell. Blaine launches himself at Kurt, eager to give back as good as he’s getting. In the back of his mind, Blaine worries vaguely about the fact that they’re outdoors but – _god_ – it’s so good that he couldn’t see them stopping under any circumstances. Not even if they were at a mall. Or in a restaurant. Or in Kurt’s car. Or right on the Dalton staircase.  
  
To Blaine’s shock, the thought of that sends a sharp spark of heat straight to his groin: _If only the Dalton boys could see me now._ Blaine Anderson, with his easygoing smile and his charming manners and his unfailing sense of rightness and propriety, fucking _mauling_ his boyfriend in his own backyard - sucking on Kurt’s tongue, yanking at the hemline of Kurt’s shirt - untucking it from Kurt’s pants and sliding his own hands beneath it to touch the silken skin there -  
  
They’ve never gone farther. Blaine’s _never_ been harder.  
  
Kurt grips Blaine roughly by the shoulders and steers him backward until he’s pressed up against the tree trunk. Pinned firmly in place, Kurt leans down to kiss Blaine with trembling lips, his fingers shaking as they slide up to cup Blaine’s face. Kurt’s keeping himself at a distance – Blaine can tell that it’s taking every ounce of his self-control, but he’s holding back for Blaine. And Blaine’s holding back, presumably for Kurt.  
  
“Blaine,” breathes Kurt, low in his ear, “We can stop if you want. It’s just - you have no idea how hot you are and I can’t – _god_ , Blaine. It’s past your curfew now and – _fuck_ , I don’t want to stop, but I’m about to have a really serious problem if I don’t get off of you”-  
  
Blaine grabs for the material at the front of Kurt’s shirt, balling it up in his fist. It’s a nearly-involuntary gesture at this point. “So don’t get off me,” he growls. “ _Don’t_ get off me. Get me _off_ , Kurt”-  
  
“ _Fuck,”_ hisses Kurt. “Blaine, god, _Blaine_ ”-  
  
Blaine yanks at the material of Kurt’s shirt again until Kurt is crashing into him; the full weight of him rocketing into Blaine, forcing the breath out of his lungs.  
  
When he settles back into himself, he’s faced with the heady realization that Kurt’s _cock_ is pressing against him for the first time. It’s unmistakable, hot and hard against Blaine’s hipbone. Or at least it is until Blaine grinds his hips sideways, angling himself until their pelvises align and -   
  
“Oh…” gasps Kurt; a shocked, shivering breath of air. “Oh… my god. I didn’t know. I didn’t… Never – _never_ stop touching me…”  
  
Blaine groans, sliding his hands around to _finally_ grope his boyfriend’s ass. Kurt cries out in surprise and presses himself forward, thrusting his hips into Blaine’s. They both cry out at the sensations elicited by that movement, and it hits Blaine all at once that _this is it_. This is happening. _They’re really doing this._  
  
He grinds his hips upward into Kurt’s, feeling an almost unbearable jolt of pleasure surge through him – god, how is it possible that this feels five, ten, _a_ _hundred_ times better than jerking off?  
  
They’re going slowly. They’re feeling it out. It’s as though they’re each trying to hang onto the remnants of their self-control; giving each other the space to re-assess things, or to back out if they need to. They’re surging into one another; slow, tentative thrusts followed by a few seconds of harsh breathing and low, quiet moans – they’re still aware of their surroundings; they haven’t entirely given themselves over -  
  
“Kurt,” whispers Blaine. “Kiss me. _Please_ kiss me.”  
  
Kurt’s eyes widen in surprise, as though he’d forgotten for a moment that he’s allowed to. Kurt lowers his mouth to Blaine’s and seals their lips together. It’s a slow, sweet kiss; Kurt’s tongue sliding gently past Blaine’s parted lips, Blaine drinking in Kurt’s low sounds of pleasure. But then Blaine thrusts his hips up against Kurt’s and they both moan brokenly into the kiss – and somehow that simple action manages to unlock _everything._  
  
The kiss turns _wild_ and there’s an undercurrent of urgency to their actions now. They haul each other in as tightly as they can, grasping at whatever skin and fabric they can reach. There’s a moment where Blaine is sure that he and Kurt can’t possibly get closer – every pocket of space between them seems to have been sealed tightly - but then Kurt disproves that theory by shoving Blaine roughly against the tree trunk and hoisting him up, pinning him in place with the pressure of his own body.  
  
Blaine is _gone_. He has lost himself to this boy, and to the adrenaline coursing through him, and to the thick haze of heat surrounding him. The summer air sparks around the boys, alive and electric, as they fight to fit themselves together. Blaine digs his blunt fingernails into Kurt’s shoulders and hitches his legs around Kurt’s waist - and his back shoves painfully against the tree every time Kurt bucks his hips upward, but _fuck, who even cares?_  
  
It’s all instinct now; just heat and need and friction between them. They half-manage to find a rhythm, but they’ve never done this before and it’s all just _so much_. Kurt grinds his pelvis into Blaine at _just_ the right angle and Blaine has to stifle his yell; he arches his back just the slightest bit – he can’t help it – but it’s enough to throw Kurt’s already-shaking thighs off-balance. Kurt falls backward and Blaine slides down the tree, a sharp pain zipping down his spine as the rough bark scrapes his back.

It hurts like a _bitch_.  
  
And Blaine could care less.

They’re on each other again in a matter of seconds, groping blindly for one another in the darkness, twisting their arms around one another and crashing their mouths together. There’s a moment where they’re shifting, and then pressing, and then writhing frantically against one another. And it isn’t as though they’re _fighting_ for dominance, per se, but it’s definitely a question; an open-ended, interrogative sliding of limbs that wonders just _how_ this will play out.  
  
And it’s answered about thirty seconds later when Kurt insinuates his knee in between Blaine’s legs, shoves off from the ground and flips them over abruptly, until Blaine is sprawled out on his back and staring up at the stars.  
  
Blaine forgets sometimes.

Maybe it’s the way Kurt carries himself; something in the arrangement of his limbs or the coyness of his gaze. Maybe it’s the airy musicality of his voice or the beautifully feminine touches he adds to his wardrobe. Blaine loves _all_ of these things – but the trouble is that they can make Kurt appear deceptively fragile and ethereal, even to people who know him well.  


_Deceptive_ is the key word, however -  
  
\- because neither _fragile_ nor _ethereal_ are apt modifiers for the boy who is straddling Blaine, kneeling in the dirt with grass-stained knees and sweat dripping from his forehead as he pins Blaine in place with the muscles in his thighs. Kurt’s fingers are digging into Blaine’s biceps and he’s grinding their hips together, growling low in his throat on every thrust - and Blaine is about ten seconds away from _begging_ Kurt to fuck him, lube or no, so it’s probably good that Kurt has effectively silenced him by shoving his tongue halfway down Blaine’s throat.

Kurt releases his hold on Blaine’s arms, skimming them instead down the sides of his torso, stopping when he reaches the waistband of Blaine’s shorts. He presses his thumbs into the hollows of Blaine’s hipbones, palms curving around to grasp his hips and hold them still as Kurt rocks his pelvis down again and again –  
  
Blaine thinks he might be _screaming_ if Kurt weren’t kissing him. Nothing in the world has ever felt as good as the friction of Kurt’s cock thrusting against him - a spiked-fever heat-wave that he can feel expanding in his rib cage, pulsing at the base of his spine, throbbing low in his aching balls and all along the length of his cock.  
  
Kurt rocks sideways, grinding his hips down in a circular motion - and Blaine really _is_ screaming now – a strangled, desperate cry against Kurt’s mouth. His hips try to jerk upward, but they _can’t_ ; Kurt is holding them down with near-bruising force and all Blaine can do is lie there and _take it_ –  
  
His hands are still free. Blaine stretches his arms out to either side, sliding his palms across the ground, wide and surrendering, curling his fingers into the grass. It feels like he’s sinking into the ground with every press of Kurt’s hips that flattens him further against the earth -  
  
But then Kurt breaks the kiss, writhing against Blaine frantically and gasping for air like he’s dying, and Blaine throws his head back, watching the stars spiraling above him as every thrust rocks him back. All he can see is the sky now, and Blaine isn’t sure whether he and Kurt are floating in place - or flying skyward - or falling to earth. All he knows is that they’re _somewhere_ up in the air.  
  
“ _Blaine_ …” pants Kurt. “Oh my god, _Blaine_ …”  
  
“Kurt, fuck, _Kurt_ – _fuck_ \- _Kurt_ ”-  
  
And then all sound leaves his lungs as his orgasm _slams_ into him, red-hot and devastating. Blaine’s hips jerk violently, breaking Kurt’s hold on them as they arch upward, writhing and twisting against Kurt’s pelvis as his cock twitches and spasms, as the muscles of his ass clench and convulse achingly around nothing, as his heartbeat races, as his thighs shake, as his fucking _toenails_ scrape the bottom of his sandals as they curl inward.  
  
He feels Kurt shaking above him - and for a second Blaine thinks he’s coming – but then he feels it, the tightness, the desperate edge to his trembling movements, and he hears Kurt’s voice, low and broken: “Blaine, I’m…” His breath hitches. “…so… _fucking_ … _close_ …”  
  
“I’ve got you,” says Blaine roughly. “I’ve _got_ you.”  
  
Summoning all the energy he possibly can, he shoves Kurt off him – harder than he’d meant to, but Kurt is so wild and wrecked right now that he either doesn’t object or doesn’t care at all – and when he sits up, he’s met with the sight of Kurt sprawled out on his back; flushed-red, panting, sweaty bangs plastered to his forehead. “Blaine, _please_ ”-  
  
Fucking. _Hell_.  
  
Blaine dives across the grass, drawn to Kurt like a magnet – drawn specifically to the hot, hard line of his cock tenting the thin material of his trousers. Blaine first curls his hand around Kurt’s balls; a firm but teasing pressure that makes Kurt moan, buck his hips up, and pant out ruined, devastated syllables.  
  
He slides his palm upward then, stroking up and down the smooth, generous length of Kurt’s cock. It’s warm and pulsing beneath his hand and Blaine swears he can smell Kurt – a rich, dark, salty-earthy smell that’s pure _boy_. Kurt slaps a hand to his own mouth, trying to muffle the broken sounds spilling out of him -  and then it’s only a matter of five or six strokes before Kurt _falls_ _apart_ beneath him, biting his lip viciously and groaning low in his throat as his body shudders and heaves from the force of his orgasm.  
  
Blaine is just in awe _._ That had easily _, easily_ been the hottest sight in the entire universe, and not only had he been there to witness it, but he’d been the _cause_ of it.

“Blaine…” whispers Kurt, trembling a little in the aftermath. “My god, Blaine - thank you.”  
  
“Thank _you_ ,” says Blaine fervently. “Kurt, this was… I mean, I was ready to let you drive off. If you hadn’t come back”-  
  
“I had to come back,” says Kurt. “The sight of you walking across your yard, away from me… I can’t stand it, Blaine. I can’t _stand_ it.”  
  
Blaine thinks of all the adults in the world who are curled up asleep with their loved ones, and he wonders if they take it for granted. He wonders if they remember what it felt like to be seventeen – to want so badly to share a bed, to be _this_ desperate and _this_ devastated.  
  
“You are _so_ late for your curfew,” moans Kurt.  
  
“They don’t wait up,” admits Blaine. “And even if they did, it wouldn’t be too bad. I think, since I’m careful never to miss it, that I could make up a plausible excuse for being late this once and they’d believe me. I could probably get away with more than I do, but I just – you know – it’s polite.”

Kurt raises an eyebrow. “And it's _polite_ to have sex in your parents' backyard?”  
  
Blaine grins. “Touché.”  
  
Kurt squirms, shifting his body restlessly against the ground. “I feel gross.”  
  
“I know, I know,” groans Blaine.  
  
“And I have to _drive_ _home_ like this.”  
  
Blaine reaches for Kurt’s hand. “I’m sorry.”  
  
Kurt shrugs. “It was worth it. We had _sex_.” He sounds so delighted and surprised that Blaine can’t hold back his own smile. “ _Sex_ , Blaine.”  
  
“Did it qualify as special?”  
  
Kurt smiles softly at him, his eyes startlingly clear in the moonlight. “It was with you, so… yeah.”  
  
Blaine squeezes Kurt’s hand gently and feels an answering pressure; their sweaty, dirty, grass-stained palms clasped across the space between them.  
  
“I think that’s all we really ever needed.”  
  
Blaine blinks up at the stars and lets out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding.  
  
“How long can you stay?”  
  
Kurt digs his cell phone out of his pocket. “Another… ten minutes, give or take.”

“How long _will_ you stay?”  
  
Kurt sighs. “Would you rather I be grounded and not get to see you on Friday or would you rather me stay longer tonight?”  
  
Blaine doesn’t want to give Burt Hummel a reason to be angry with him. He doesn’t want Kurt to abuse the trust his dad has placed in him. He doesn’t want his own parents to be upset with him. And he very much wants to see Kurt on Friday.  
  
But the truth is? That he doesn’t want any of these things _half_ as much as he wants to spend another hour staring up at the sky in Kurt’s arms, breathing in his scent and hearing the soft sounds of his voice.  
  
He flicks his eyes up to Kurt nervously. “Stay?”  
  
Kurt lets out a quiet, contemplative sigh and reaches for Blaine, pulling him into his arms and pressing a gentle kiss to his temple.  
  
“Okay, beautiful,” he whispers, lacing their fingers together and lifting Blaine’s hand to his mouth, brushing his lips lightly across the back of Blaine’s knuckles. “I’ll stay.”  
 

   
**FIN**

 


End file.
